


Twin Reverb

by montmorency



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:31:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/montmorency/pseuds/montmorency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writing quickly due to twitter-chat amongst awesome peeps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twin Reverb

The darkness is velvety soft, silent.

Adam wakes, something tickling at the back of his consciousness.

Music, but just barely. One randomly plucked string. Another.

The bed beside him is empty, cooling fast.

He tiptoes downstairs on little cat feet.

Tommy sits in the dark, cross-legged on the fancy silk-covered divan, back to Adam, a guitar in his lap, headphones over his ears.

Tommy’s playing something, not that Adam can hear since the sound from the amp is going straight into the headphones. The strings of the electric guitar, unamplified, sound tinny and frail.

This is Tommy’s space, the room where he keeps all his guitars and effects and accoutrements and _things_. Adam doesn’t know what half the objects are, although Tommy tries to explain now and then. Amps, stomp boxes, distortion pedals, a rainbow of picks littering the carpet. In point of fact Adam can’t tell one guitar from another, beyond thinking of them as the red one, the black one, the white one.

The music Tommy’s playing is slow and makes Adam think of Clapton or John Lee Hooker, stuff his dad loved, although with no power behind it, it’s a mere palimpsest of the real song. Adam stands quietly, listening for a long while. He doesn’t want to startle Tommy but he wants to be _with_ him so eventually he moves to the side of the divan by Tommy’s right hip, sliding into place slowly, sitting backwards so he can watch Tommy. He sees the moment that Tommy notices him and doesn’t startle, just gives him a small smile and keeps playing.

Dark as it is, the ever-present glow of Los Angeles comes through the large windows. Tommy’s fingers are amazing to watch, gliding up and down the neck of the guitar, bending strings, racing here, slowing there. Adam reaches out and gently takes the headphones from Tommy’s head and puts them over his own ears. The sound is a revelation, bursting into color and shape and depth. It’s not _loud_ inside the headphones, it’s just richer and darker and lusher and more _present._ No wonder guitar players are hooked on these amp things.

Tommy keeps playing, seemingly for Adam’s enjoyment. He appears to have no trouble even though he can’t really hear it now. Adam wonders if this is like the times when he is on stage and can’t hear himself sing, and how hard it is to produce the right tones when that happens.

He reaches out and runs his palm against the velvety soft hair at the nape of Tommy’s neck. His fingers curl against Tommy’s neck and almost unbidden pull Tommy to him. Tommy’s eyes flutter closed and his lips are lush against Adam’s, soft and full and just a bit sleep-sweet. Adam draws back, his hand sliding away from Tommy’s neck, and Tommy gives him that cute scrunched-nose smile that Adam thinks of as his alone. Even if it’s not. Dreams are precious; Adam’s going to hang onto that one.

The music inside his head captivates and enchants him, it’s like having Tommy inside somehow (weird, sure, but why not?). He bends forward again, unable to stop, and Tommy meets him halfway in a sloppy kiss, and that’s when Tommy’s fingers falter, the music going awry and then droning into nothingness. Adam pulls the headphones from his ears and drops them, takes Tommy’s face in his hands and kisses him like the world is going to end in two minutes.

It’s so, so satisfying for those two minutes, Tommy making tiny noises in the back of his throat, his tongue tangling with Adam’s. Something keeps poking Adam in the hip and it’s not an exciting boy-part, it’s the damn guitar, and “Wait,” Tommy is saying, pushing back. Adam grunts and lets go. What the ever-loving fuck? But Tommy is leaning back, away, putting the guitar – the red one – on a stand, and then he’s back, on his knees, grabbing Adam’s face and kissing him like the world is going to end in another two minutes or so.

Adam had purchased the divan for the living room because the decadence so matched the house and his taste and everything, but one look and Tommy claimed it, dragging it off to the guitar playroom. It’s perfect for music times, he told Adam. It’s also perfect for this, roomy and cushiony and wide. Adam plants a big hand on Tommy’s thin chest and shoves, and Tommy falls on his back, head pillowed on the arm of the divan, knees up and legs splayed invitingly so that Adam can slip between them and blanket Tommy. He looms, propped on his elbows, his hands cupping Tommy’s small square shoulders.

“God, I love you so fucking much,” he breathes out, dipping his head to press his lips against Tommy’s, just to feel the soft, moist give of Tommy’s mouth. “You are so amazingly sexy when you play music.”

Tommy snickers. “You wanna fuck me, don’t you?”

“Duh,” Adam says, rubbing his chin against Tommy’s jaw. Inside he’s thinking, _Geez, way to be all romantic, baby._

“Go for it,” Tommy says, “I’m still greased up from earlier.”

Adam bonks his forehead against Tommy’s. “Tommy, how can you play music like an angel and then trash-talk like a stevedore?”

“You love it,” says Tommy. “What’s a stevedore anyway?”

“Don’t worry, it’s manly.” Adam’s hand strays down Tommy’s tee-shirt, rubbing at a nipple under the thin fabric, moving further down and sneaking under to find warm skin.

He smiles when Tommy’s hands roam down his back, finding the elastic of his PJ bottoms and dragging the things over his buttocks. He lifts up so that Tommy can pull them down farther, freeing his cock, which is already very interested in the proceedings. Tommy’s hand fondles it briefly.

“Fuck me like you mean it,” Tommy says dreamily.

Fuck.

“I always mean it,” Adam says, reaching over his own head with one hand, grabbing the neck of his shirt, pulling it over his head. He manhandles it underneath Tommy, getting an expected giggle for the OCD-ness, then ruthlessly yanks down Tommy’s Batman boxers.

“Just don’t get jizz on my guitars,” Tommy warns, throwing his arms around Adam’s neck and pulling Adam down for another messy kiss.

Adam rolls his eyes. “Or my divan,” he says.

“ _My_ divan,” Tommy corrects.

“I love you,” Adam says experimentally.

“I love this divan,” Tommy throws in cattily.

Adam sighs. He pushes at Tommy’s thigh, pinning it back against the divan until Tommy utters a small _ouch_.

“I’m sorry,” Adam says.

“No, you’re not,” Tommy counters.

“But I am,” Adam insists softly. “I love you, I never want to hurt you.”

“You can hurt me real good,” Tommy says. “Put that giant-ass thing in me and fuck me. Make it hurt.”

“No.”

Tommy’s teasing. He does it to hide. Adam knows this. Adam knows that Tommy understands that there is no room for pain in their physical relationship. Their emotional relationship is already too full of pain, of how they got to this place of frail understanding. More pain than this would kill them. He loves Tommy and he’s going to keep him, whatever it takes. His hand caresses Tommy’s thigh; moves to cup his tiny ass; strokes his hole. Still greased up, sure enough. He draws the thigh over his shoulder and pats it gently. He lines up his cock and slides in easily. He loves the way Tommy’s body makes space for him, like it’s no big thing. Like he belongs.

He loves Tommy. Totally. He tells Tommy that all the time. It’s a game, he’s always trying to trick Tommy into professing love in return. It’s not an easy game to win. Tommy is so stubborn about foolish things, like letting emotions out in the open. Adam lets it slide, focuses on thrusting into Tommy’s body with steady intent.

Tommy teases when they’re having sex, but Adam can make him come apart. Adam pushes against him harder, buries his face against Tommy’s throat. Tommy is whimpering, twitching, trembling, his hands scrabbling at Adam’s back and shoulders. Adam thinks he hears his name whispered, so light that it floats away immediately and he’s not sure he dreamed it, maybe. Tommy shudders and Adam feels a messy warmth against his stomach. _I love you,_ he thinks, saying it to himself even if Tommy won’t say it out loud, fucking faster, holding Tommy’s thigh in a hard grip. That probably causes a little pain, he realizes, and then he comes inside Tommy and it feels incredible and so fucking final.

But the world doesn’t end, so he kisses Tommy all soft and compliant and open. “I love you, honey. So much. So much, baby.”

Tommy shifts and twitches, still pinned down. His hands are still on Adam’s shoulders. He swallows hard, whispers, “Your shoulders are so big compared to mine.”

“Yeah?”

“I love your shoulders.”

Well, that’s a start.

“I love your freckles.”

“I love you, Tommy,” Adam whispers against his ear.

“I love,” Tommy starts, hesitates. “My new Jazzmaster. It’s so awesome.”

Adam rolls his eyes. _Oh Tommy._ He puts his head on the armrest next to Tommy’s, nuzzles against his ear.

Tommy hums a little tune very quietly. It’s the one he was playing earlier. It’s like the flash of a light bulb: Adam gets it now. Adam’s all about words, talking is easy for him. Too easy, some would say. But Tommy? He expresses himself with music, and it’s about time Adam realized that the music that Tommy plays for him? Tommy's music inside Adam's head? That’s Tommy’s way of saying _I love you._

“Tommy?” he whispers, kissing the side of Tommy’s sweaty neck.

“Yeah?” Tommy whispers back.

“I’m never letting you go.”

Tommy doesn’t answer. For a moment, Adam thinks he’s said the wrong thing.

Then Tommy’s face turns and their lips meet and Tommy whispers against his mouth, “Love you, Adam. So much.”


End file.
